Like my parents and grandparents, my generation has always believed in the demand for Gorkhaland.

When I read a tweet about Suraj Bhusal being shot dead by the paramilitary forces, I called my father in Kurseong, Darjeeling, immediately, and asked him what he was doing.

“Going for the funeral march of Tashi Bhutia, who was shot the night before,” he replied.

Bhusal had been walking in a pro-Gorkhaland procession in Darjeeling when he was killed. I begged my father not to go – from faraway Mumbai, it seemed as if the paramilitary was out to kill anyone who were part of the Gorkhaland protest. There had been two shootings in less than 10 hours. My father said, “Ae nani Gorkhaland ko lagi... marcha bhanae maroshh.” For Gorkhaland... if they’ll kill me, let them.

The Darjeeling and Kalimpong districts along with the Duars region at the foot of the Himalayas form the proposed state of Gorkhaland. The ethnolinguistic cultural sentiments of the people living in these parts of West Bengal form the basis of the demand for a separate state within the Indian Union. This movement is supported by the Nepali- or Gorkhali- (a version of Nepali) speaking Gorkha ethnic group of North Bengal. The demand for a separate unit has been there since 1907, when the Hillmen’s Association in Darjeeling submitted a memorandum to the Minto-Morley Reforms Committee, demanding a separated administration set up. In the 1980s, the agitation took a violent turn.

Girls play as paramilitary troops stand guard at Chowkbazar area during an indefinite strike called by the Gorkha Janamukti Morcha in Darjeeling. Photo credit: AFP

I wasn’t born during that agitation but heard stories about it from the elders in my family. On May 5, 1986, at a march in Kurseong demanding autonomy for the hills, five people were shot dead by the paramilitary forces. The violence took a much brutal shape thereafter. My uncle was jailed for four months, during which time he almost lost his life to grievous beatings. He was never involved in politics – he still isn’t.

During the 1980s, men were routinely rounded up by the armed forces. They were either taken to prison or assassinated (according to official estimates, the movement left 1,200 people dead). This meant women and children were left alone at home, routinely making them vulnerable to rape and sexual harassment. These incidents were never reported, no relief was provided to the victims, my family says. It’s just what ordinary life was like.

From that time on, the people of Darjeeling grew up in an atmosphere of fear and trauma. This was why my parents sent me to college in Hyderabad and later, Mumbai. They made sure I was away from the heart of the resistance and the anxieties it brings – except I have never really escaped it.

Humiliation by a million cuts

The night my father went to attend Tashi Bhutia’s funeral, I couldn’t get through to anybody’s phone in the hills until late at night. I was worried sick. None of my friends from Darjeeling, who had migrated from home for safety, better education or jobs, could call home either – the internet had been banned and we suspected that phone lines had been cut too.

Irrespective of our religion, caste, tribe or location in the world, my friends and I have considered ourselves part of the Gorkha community. Like my parents and grandparents, my generation has always believed in the demand for Gorkhaland.

Photo credit: PTI

I was 15 when I left home to attend high school in Siliguri. Growing up on the mainland during those years, I came across many versions of the person I was supposed to be, as a Gorkha person. These opinions were incompatible with what I had experienced as a child growing up in Darjeeling. In junior school, my teacher Miss Lama often told us we are the daughters of Kangchenjunga – so she reminded us to be righteous.

In college, people would greet me with “Salaam Saabji”, mimicking accents they had seen actors perform in the movies. When people learn I’m from Darjeeling, they say something about tea, without fail. A professor once reasoned that Gorkha/Nepali women are trafficked in such unbelievable number, because we are beautiful and soft.

The media tells stories about us that have become part of our lived experiences. The stereotype of a Gorkha watchman that struggles to speak in Hindi might be comic relief for some, but it causes irreparable psychological harm to the Gorkha community. The majority of mainland Indians do not even think they are being racist when they use the term Gorkha interchangeably with the word watchman.

Thanks to my degree in Dalit and tribal studies, I was able to see these endless examples of people mistaking my ethnicity for an occupation, for what it really is – a consequence of the jati framework followed by caste Hindus, where the occupation of a person translates into their identity. But the Gorkha identity is a meta identity of the people residing in the hills of Darjeeling, Terai and Duars. The language adopted in these parts is Nepali.

A post shared by WE WANT GORKHALAND (@gorkhalandunrest) on Jun 24, 2017 at 4:59am PDT

I began to realise that there are few people from the Gorkha community in positions of power. A majority of the people who migrate to metropolises become part of the labour force – in contrast to other communities that migrate from Bengal.

Being a historically oppressed community renders our voice inaudible. There is a confusion that surrounds the Gorkha identity, since what we are defined as has always been determined from an external source – either by Nepali citizens claiming that our ancestors were from the Gorkha district in Nepal, or the colonial classification of the Gorkha as a soldier. This is a deliberate strategy for exploiting us (as soldiers, plantation labour) or dividing us.

Old resistance, new blood

While the government ignores the deaths of the Gorkhas in the hills, the Gorkhas outside have begun to re-examine our histories. We discuss our ethnicity, our Gorkha identity, the indigenous knowledge systems that are now defunct, the persecution of the Gorkha population in parts of the North East and in Bhutan.

On June 8, when the shutdown in the hills began, people I hadn’t spoken to since I was in school, called me from various cities across mainland India. They are people like me – with no political affiliations, in diverse professions, people who grew up hearing stories of the andolan in the 1980s, people like me who shrug off racist comments every day of their lives.

A post shared by WE WANT GORKHALAND (@gorkhalandunrest) on Jul 5, 2017 at 1:24am PDT

There are those of us who want to go back and experience the revolution, and contribute to it in some way. The fear of the paramilitary has percolated from our grandparents and parents to us. We are scared but we speak often, about how the dream of Gorkhaland, alive since the 1980s, might finally be realised. We talk about organising and executing campaigns in the cities to mobilise people, make a noise loud enough for the government to pay attention to.

Through the conversations, it was apparent that no matter how near or far we were from home, we are united in our search for a sense of belonging. The creation of a separate state of Gorkhaland in the Indian Union will warrant that we are no longer deemed foreigners in our own land. We are pushing back the stereotyping, the negative pathologies and the racist hate against the Gorkha community, so we are accepted as equal citizens in our own home.

When did we start parenting our parents?

As our parents grow older, our ‘adulting’ skills are tested like never before.

From answering every homework question to killing every monster under the bed, from soothing every wound with care to crushing anxiety by just the sound of their voice - parents understandably seemed like invincible, know-it-all superheroes all our childhood. It’s no wonder then that reality hits all of a sudden, the first time a parent falls and suffers a slip disc, or wears a thick pair of spectacles to read a restaurant menu - our parents are growing old, and older. It’s a slow process as our parents turn from superheroes to...human.

And just as slow to evolve are the dynamics of our relationship with them. Once upon a time, a peck on the cheek was a frequent ritual. As were handmade birthday cards every year from the artistically inclined, or declaring parents as ‘My Hero’ in school essays. Every parent-child duo could boast of an affectionate ritual - movie nights, cooking Sundays, reading favourite books together etc. The changed dynamic is indeed the most visible in the way we express our affection.

The affection is now expressed in more mature, more subtle ways - ways that mimics that of our own parents’ a lot. When did we start parenting our parents? Was it the first time we offered to foot the electricity bill, or drove them to the doctor, or dragged them along on a much-needed morning walk? Little did we know those innocent acts were but a start of a gradual role reversal.

In adulthood, children’s affection for their parents takes on a sense of responsibility. It includes everything from teaching them how to use smartphones effectively and contributing to family finances to tracking doctor’s appointments and ensuring medicine compliance. Worry and concern, though evidence of love, tend to largely replace old-fashioned patterns of affection between parents and children as the latter grow up.

It’s something that can be easily rectified, though. Start at the simplest - the old-fashioned peck on the cheek. When was the last time you gave your mom or dad a peck on the cheek like a spontaneous five-year-old - for no reason at all? Young parents can take their own children’s behaviour available as inspiration.

As young parents come to understand the responsibilities associated with caring for their parents, they also come to realise that they wouldn’t want their children to go through the same challenges. Creating a safe and secure environment for your family can help you strike a balance between the loving child in you and the caring, responsible adult that you are. A good life insurance plan can help families deal with unforeseen health crises by providing protection against financial loss. Having assurance of a measure of financial security for family can help ease financial tensions considerably, leaving you to focus on being a caring, affectionate child. Moreover,you can eliminate some of the worry for your children when they grow up – as the video below shows.

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